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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Thing
Simple
Much
Littles
Like
Persons
Person
Little
Wells
Snowfall
Well
Snow
Mean
Winter

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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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